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One day you are twenty-seven years old. It was never supposed to go down like this.
I mean, it was inevitable right? But were you really going to outlive Kurt Cobain? Not when you were fourteen, you couldn't have then because you were dying. And at sixteen you were dead. By eighteen you had left the state and you knew everything and by twenty-one you'd had complicated relationships and been reborn and truly alive and all of that was so ridiculous but even the concept of twenty-five

And then it happens you are twenty-seven. And you don't have any of your extremes planned out. Like how you were going to do heroin on your twenty-seventh birthday or be married with two kids. You've never done heroin; you've never had two kids. Better yet you've never shot up anything, never been properly knocked up. You're twenty-seven years five months and eleven days old-- something like that right? If you were born in January and it is May now? This seems right. This is what you are thinking after a man you just met almost drove a car off a cliff after you stayed in a luxury type resort in the San Juan Islands which sound very tropical but are actually running down along the coast of Washington, close to Canada. It's gorgeous and Goonies green. There is no color in his eyes as he accelerates on the slippery slopes and says "I"m sorry baby, I know you must be really afraid right now," and you watch a deer run inches in front of the car while calmly looking for a permanent marker so you can write on your left hand "I love my mother." This seems appropriate. It seems like it won't rub off and it well do just as well. There will be extensive dental records. They will say she was terribly afraid of cars.

She told everyone, including the man driving that day, about the car accident when she was twenty. But you, the girl in the car, who is now a woman, not twenty but twenty-seven you are in the San Juan Islands and I think you have outlived Kurt Cobain by a few months. You are sure you going to die, this is your greatest fear after that SUV flipped over a few times and the highway was splattered with blood and you heard bones breaking. And nothing you rebelled against in high school mattered and none of the pills anyone took fixed any of their maladies. And moving to New York didn't fix your spine, it only made it temporarily longer and moving to Portland didn't make the interstate stop but it sort of kind of almost stalled the car.

The man driving doesn't want to miss the ferry. And you, you're the kind of women that let's men take you on holiday. You are the kind of women that gets to die after burning mix cds when no one can find the proper plug to hook-up the iPhone to the the stereo system of the car. So if Kurt Cobain was born on February 20th and then died on April 5th that's how many months? January, February, March, April. Yep. You outlived him.But not really.

But not really and this is how you are going to measure mortality because you just went to visit your parents in Seattle where your best friend lived for one year and you were unhappy. And in high school, absently, openly equally & most importantly as a threat you'd say "I'm going to move to Seattle"
and at fourteen, which is roughly half your age you'd say
"It can't rain all the time."
And before you lost your virginity in the backyard in the new millennium (six months later, respectively)
And everything became about maybe we will live mostly in Long Beach, California because realistically couldn't I write my first novel there? And then wouldn't we get to live to be 28? or maybe it was even 29? When you are listening to Sublime in backyards and boys are blonde and your lips are chapped. And you have still never wanted to be anything other than a writer. See, I'd roughly have some time left.

Daniela Scrima riding in cars with boys. I mean Daniela Scrima riding in cars with men.

Daniela Scrima writing in cars with boys. I mean Daniela Scrima writing in cars with men.

I mean the way you measure your mortality by stopping in Olympia and letting a man by you pizza. Thinking Courtney Love was here. Still wondering "maybe she killed him." Shaking your ass in a thrift store and spitting on the ground.

He missed the ferry.
You didn't die in the car.

You are suddenly twenty-seven years old. It snuck up on you. You have done enough. You don't feel some sense of lack of accomplishment, in fact, you feel like you have been alive more maybe thousands of years. You feel like in fact maybe you have already died in The San Juan Islands three of four times. You have picked this fight before. The brain damage was your fault five lifetimes ago. The man in the bookstore who is a direct relative of John Steinbeck, the miracle of the day. Maybe this has all happened once before. Maybe that is why you can read quickly. Maybe that is why you need earplugs to sleep?

Or a different man that you lived with for so long, just never wants to see you again. Because it is your face. And he had a hybrid car. And he never tried to drive it off a cliff. And you want to call him or knock on his door and tell him that you do in fact of the walking pneumonia that this is in fact fluid in your lungs. You do in fact want to tell him about Olympia and the Capitol Theatre, and things he already knows, things that all the men in your life know because the only men the twenty-seven year old sees are a decade older than you. You cannot do this because it is your face. You cannot do this because it is your narrative. You cannot do this because you have no middle name.

When you were seventeen you already met the boy who would be with you when the car flipped over when you were twenty. You wrote a story based off of another story and you called it the same thing "The Man I Killed" but you really didn't kill anything, you can say now, ten years later that it was a good story. Your best friend who lived in Seattle for a year was there too but she has not yet outlived Kurt Cobain. She has a few more months. She would have cared immensely if you died in The San Juan Islands because days before you had texted her about where to eat lunch and you couldnt remember the name of the neighborhood she lived in
"Capitol Hill"
And then you remembered right away
And of course you missed everyone. And always took candy from strangers.

You have had stomach aches and time zones; twelve hour lovers and undercover brothers. You have said repeatedly to anyone who would listen "this song is about me". And every time it has felt so good. Because words, even when it has been so long, they can wash over you and you can be reborn with them. You can miss your cousins. You can wonder why you were an only child.

You can miss your dog.

For now, you can feel completely fulfilled with that alone as your role as a mother because when you say "Come see Momma!" the boy comes running. And that is what you wanted, the whole time from the songs and the stories and the holidays. The poems and the boys and the men and the islands and the cities. You wanted love that was unconditional. That is why we bake it bittersweet and bury our pets, the ones with unconditional love to offer, who will not outlive us or search for permanent markers in the passenger seat thinking that this day came too soon, that the view is so lovely.


( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
May. 24th, 2012 03:27 am (UTC)
Wait.. why are you back in Oregon? Are you back with him?
I'm confused!
(Deleted comment)
(Deleted comment)
May. 29th, 2012 01:29 am (UTC)
Oh ok! I get it. I'm glad you moved back for yourself. I'll check out the other entries.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )


Hysteria is not possible without an audience, that's why I need you baby. I've always needed you.

I have kept this blog since my first day of high school. It has been an outlet, a blessing, a curse. I talk extensively about anything, music, dudes, internet addiction &how text messaging ruined my life. Some entries are "friends only" but most everything else is public.


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